Dino Lackey in the Land of the Dead
Shuttle Graveyard - Rust Seas The stormy winds of the Rust Seas are fierce enough to rip low-flying shuttles from the sky, and once within the rusty atmosphere, there's no saving the crafts from being buffeted into the shuttle graveyard. It's a gruesome place, with various aircraft crammed into compressed piles and covered in rust. Some shuttles are impaled on other nosecones or wings. Cockpits and rows of seats are strewn about, and what must be the core lines of deceased Cybertronians lie in the massive trenches dug by crashed ships, picked clean by the predators of the area. Contents Mecha Tyrannosaurus Obvious exits: West leads to Range. Mecha Tyrannosaurus has been rather enjoying having his own personal lackey around. Well, janitor, but it /seems/ like a lackey. And nothing pleases him more than to see such an arrogant mech so degraded. While Blast Off's punishment doesn't involve him having to clean /outside/ of bases, Snapdragon has pulled him along anyway, by threat of teeth. The mecha t-rex stomps through the relatively shallow dunes of rust particles to sniff and pick at Cybertronian remains, drooling oil all the while. Blast Off follows VERY reluctantly behind the Horrorcon, trying hard not to get the rust on him but mostly failing. In fact, the normally quite polished and smart-looking Combaticon is looking rather scruffy. Still attempting to keep some semblance of dignity, he pushes aside a large eroded core hanging overhead so it doesn't drip anything on him. He complains witha huff, "Do you REALLY need to be out here? More importantly, what am *I* doing out here? My ....duties... did not include gallivanting Primus-forsaken spots like this slag-heap....." Mecha Tyrannosaurus ignores Blast Off, until something draws his pallid optics. "Heh heh! Blast Off! That one looks like you!" With a little t-rex claw, he points at a purple-brown shuttle that has met its end skewered on some giant rib of a mechanical beast. "Mech up, you're a warrior are you not? Warriors don't complain. Oooh," He spots a tire still attached to landing gear with some rubber on it, and holds it down with his foot as he rips shreds away. Blast Off glares at him irritably. "Yes, I AM a warrior. And a warrior of MY skills should be out in space, destroying Autobots or obtaining new resources, not...not cleaning up dinosaur-dribble." Blast Off is frustrated, tired, and isn't even sure he's actually even done "cleaning" correctly so far... the shuttleformer has never deigned to do something like *sniff* menial labor... that's always been a lesser mech's job. He looks over at the dead shuttle and stifles a shiver... he doesn't like being here for all kinds of reasons, and seeing something that looks like him- permenantly offlined- doesn't help. He waves a hand at it and tries to deny any similarities: "That is clearly an old, inferior model of short-range space shuttle. Note the three vertical stablizers, instead of my singular and more efficient one. Pffft, it hardly looks anything like me." He walks a few more steps and looks at what Snapdragon is eating with distaste. "And HOW do you possibly find that appetizing? No wonder your food never agrees with you..." "You are not as efficient as you think you are, Blast Off," Snapdragon sneers through a serpentine hiss. "You draw attention to your glory, but in doing so, more optics settle on your failures. And you /failed/ to destroy the data miner. That was a poor decision. Learn some subtlety." Snapdragon sits back on his haunches, in the shade of a giant jetliner buried in the "sand", and continues to gnaw at the tire. "I like the texture! I enjoy the simple pleasures in life. You know what pleasure is, right?" He bursts into a deep, raspy laugh. "Sit your aft down and enjoy the solitude. You like that, yeah? No one comes out here." Blast Off scoffs at Snapdragon's (possibly rather astute, to an outside observer) observations. He starts to contradict the Horrorcon, then just... stops, realizing he's actually not quite sure what to say. There's no way Snapdragon could be correct, but... somehow a snappy comeback is failing him. He settles for another glare, then looks off in the distance to where the pitted hull of a formerly very large shuttle looms like a mountain and casts a giant purple shadow. He ignores Snapdragon's last request for a long moment, still staring off into the distance. Way too many dead shuttles here... is this were HE might end up someday? He shakes his head at the thought and decides any company at all might be better than dwelling with the ghosts of this graveyard. So the Combaticon does sit down near the other mech. He states quietly, "Pleasure is being as far away from here as possible. Preferably in space... it's a shame these shuttles didn't at least die out among the stars. And yes- I prefer to be alone. I think most shuttles probably do. It's what we usually are out there- alone- you get used to it." Mecha Tyrannosaurus makes a mess of himself, as usual, shreds of rubber and oil dripping down his front. He watches Blast Off sidelong, picking his teeth with a claw, tail tapping slowly. "I imagine the shuttles that perished in space don't rightly collect in one spot. Destined to drift forever... how poignant. I'd much rather die with my feet on the ground." Eventually, he offers Blast Off a slimy sliver of rubber. "How is your therapy going? Heh heh..." Blast Off ohs. "Ah- are you saying that they were brought here? That... could be correct. I was simply picturing a vast, grand battle of myriad shuttleformers that took place here long ago...." He sighs a bit, then concedes: "But... it would probably be more likely that they were brought here AFTER they offlined somewhere else." He thinks to himself- probably after something really stupid killed them, too, like a large asteroid struck them, or they were taken out by a sudden radiation flare... pfft, at least that is what he expects would be HIS fate right now, given his luck these days.... "I like my initial idea better, though." Blast Off cringes slightly at the slimy rubber. "Errr, no thanks. I... just ate." Then he looks up haughtily at the Horrorcon's last question. "And WHY is THAT any of your business?" He huffs, going on to pick at some oil and rust that seems to be stuck to the heat shields on his arm. "... I still fail to see why Harrow decided to single ME of all mechs out for that nonsense.... I am just fine. Despite what she says. Perfectly happy, yes. No cerebro-quackery needed." Then he glares back up. "Why- would YOU like to schedule an appointment? I'm sure she'd find YOU quite fascinating..." Mecha Tyrannosaurus laps at his maw, "Who knows..." His saurid smile broadens as Blast Off goes back to being angry. "Everything is just soooo beneath you, is that right, Blast Off? I share my mind with a Nebulan criminal - there is no hope of sorting /me/ out. But. My issues do not get me in trouble with Lord Galvatron. Mechs believe the mechanimals to be stupid..." He stands and sniffs Blast Off invasively, "I only see stupid before me." He's sure to drip his oil all over Blast Off's lap before turning to trudge back towards the dunes. Blast Off feels his fuel pressure rising with the "stupid" comment. But he doesn't have much time to dwell on that as Snapdragon proceeds to loom over him. And slag, the larger Con does have really sharp teeth. Blast Off leans back as those teeth get way too close for comfort near his head, though he still manages to look more affronted than afraid. Especially when ...oh, gross.... oil everywhere. Lovely. Dinsoaur-breath oil.... and Blast Off isn't being allowed to bathe. That does it- he's going to surreptitiously take a quick dust bath the next chance he gets.... at this point ANYTHING would help. Well, maybe. As Snapdragon trudges off, Blast Off wipes some dusty debris on spots, trying to at least remove the worst of it. The now now foul-mood AND foul-smell Combaticon then walks after the Horrorcon, grumbling, "I am HARDLY stupid, I'm one of the most sophisticated and learned mechs in this army.... And if you're so smart, how did you get stuck with a Nebulan criminal, anyway?" "If you were smart you wouldn't have to announce it! You know who's smart? Dangerously smart? Shockwave. You could take a page or two out of HIS book." Snapdragon eventually transforms back to root mode and glances over his shoulder. "Ain't nothing wrong with having a criminal for a head, heh! But I don't recall getting a choice in the matter. Such is the life of the Decepticon..." He shrugs. "It's way past nap time, I'm heading back. Try to keep up, lackey! Heh heh!" Blast Off makes a tiny nod... actually, he can't argue there- Shockwave IS extremely smart... even the Combaticon realizes he could probably learn something from him- which is saying a lot. He'd even support Shockwave as Decepticon leader- that is, if he had a choice. Which he doesn't. Oh well. Then he glares again....Oh, how Blast Off hates being called "lackey". In fact, "lackey" makes "Babe Off" seem positively wonderful. Violey-gray optics flash briefly, but there's not much he can do about it. Well- he COULD say SLAG THIS and take off, refusing to do any more "cleaning", but then he'd better not return -ever- either. And the DJD would come looking for him. Probably, worse yet- ONSLAUGHT would come looking for him. The shuttleformer sighs and ducks under yet another shuttle carcass that looks an awfully lot like himself as he follows Snapdragon back to base... keeping his distance where possible. He still manages to grumble, "...I'm not your "lackey"." Snapdragon vanishes out of reality.